I become a ghost.
I show up to practice exactly on time—never early, never late—and leave the moment Coach blows the final whistle. Answer direct questions with one-word responses. Sit alone during breaks. Avoid the locker room until it's nearly empty.
The distance costs me everything.
On the ice, the connection I built with Blaze crumbles like it was never there. Passes that once flowed seamlessly now miss their marks by inches, then feet. Plays we perfected together fall apart because I refuse to meet his eyes, refuse to anticipate his movements, refuse to be the partner I was learning to become.
"Carpenter! What the hell was that?" Coach Wellington's voice echoes through the arena after another botched formation. "You're playing like you've never seen a puck before!"
"Sorry, Coach." I keep my gaze fixed on the ice. "Will try again."
But it does happen again. And again. And again.
Every missed pass is a knife in my chest. Every disappointed shake of Wellington's head reminds me what I'm sacrificing. But every time I'm tempted to look at Blaze, to let myself sync with him the way my body desperately wants to, I hear Jackson's voice.
Distraction. Benchwarmer. Pathetic childhood crush.
Stay away from him.
Blaze tries to reach me constantly. Skates close during drills, murmuring questions I pretend not to hear. His voice is gentle at first, then confused, then edged with desperation as the days pass.
"Ash, what's going on?"
"Ashy, please talk to me."
"Did I do something wrong? Just tell me what it is."
I don't answer. Can't answer. Every word he says makes it harder to maintain the distance I've forced between us.
The texts pile up on my phone—the phone I keep buried in my gym bag, turned off, where I won't be tempted to read them. I know they're there. Know each one is probably more desperate than the last. The knowledge eats at me like acid.
Three days after I sent the "need space" text, Blaze corners me near the boards during a water break. His composure is cracking, the easy confidence I fell in love with replaced by something raw and wounded.
"Talk to me." His voice drops to something private, shielded from the teammates around us. "I can see you slipping away and I don't know how to stop it. Whatever's wrong—just tell me. I'll do whatever it takes."
I force myself to look through him instead of at him. Focus on a point somewhere past his shoulder. If I meet his eyes, I'll break.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm focusing on the game. You should too."
"Focusing?" He laughs, but it's hollow. Broken. "You won't even look at me. You're shutting me out completely. After everything we—" He stops, swallows hard. "After everything."
"Maybe that's what's best right now."
The hurt that flashes across his face nearly shatters my resolve. His eyes—those warm brown eyes that have seen through every wall I've ever built—go dark with pain. His jaw tightens. His hands clench at his sides.
I want to reach out. Want to cup his face and tell him everything—Jackson's threats, the research, the soul-crushing realization that I might be the thing standing between him and his dreams. Want to kiss him until neither of us can breathe and promise that this is temporary, that I'm doing this for him, that I love him too much to watch him fail because of me.
Instead, I skate away.
Leave him standing alone on the ice with confusion and pain written across his features.
It's the hardest thing I've ever done.
Jackson watches it all with barely concealed satisfaction. He inserts himself into every gap I create—sitting next to Blaze at team meetings, partnering with him during drills whenever Coach allows it, filling the space that used to belong to me. His smug glances across the rink say everything his words don't need to.
I told you so. I warned you. Now look what you've done.
Part of me wants to skate over there and slam him into the boards. Make him pay for the poison he poured in my ear, for the manipulation that's tearing me apart from the inside out.
But what good would that do? Jackson would spin it as proof that I'm unstable, volatile, a liability to the team. And maybe he'd be right.
After practice, I retreat to my apartment. The silence is suffocating. I haven't turned my phone on in three days, haven't spoken to anyone outside of mandatory team interactions, haven't done anything except exist in the hollow space my life has become.
I eat dinner standing at the kitchen counter because sitting at the table feels too pathetic. Watch TV without absorbing a single frame. Try to study for an exam I'll probably fail because every word blurs into Blaze's face.
Eventually, I find myself standing in front of my closet, staring at a shoebox on the top shelf.
I haven't opened it in years. Haven't let myself. It's been sitting up there gathering dust since before Blaze came back, a relic of a past I'd convinced myself I'd moved on from.
Tonight, the loneliness is too heavy. My hands move before my brain can stop them.
Inside: photographs. Faded and worn, edges soft from years of handling before I locked them away. I spread them across my bed with trembling fingers.
Me and Blaze at ten years old, grinning on that frozen pond, hockey sticks clutched in mittened hands. The day we made our promise—the day everything started.
Me and Blaze at twelve, covered in mud after a summer camping trip. He'd pushed me into a creek and I'd dragged him down with me. We'd laughed until our stomachs hurt.
Me and Blaze at fourteen, the last day I saw him in person before he moved away. Arms slung around each other's shoulders, smiles that didn't know they were about to be separated. Didn't know that distance and time and silence were coming to swallow everything we'd built.
I trace the edge of that final photo. We look so young. So certain that nothing could tear us apart.
"Promise me we'll meet on the same ice again someday."
I kept that promise. We both did. Against all odds, we found our way back to each other.
And now I'm destroying everything we rebuilt because I'm terrified of being the reason he fails.
A tear splashes onto the photograph before I realize I'm crying. Then another. Then I can't stop, sobs tearing out of my chest in ugly, ragged bursts that echo through the empty apartment.
I shove the box back onto the shelf. Wipe my face roughly with the hem of my shirt. Crawl into bed without turning on the lights and curl into a ball like I can protect myself from the pain radiating through every cell of my body.
Tomorrow is another practice. Another day of avoiding Blaze's eyes. Another day of pretending I'm fine when I'm falling apart from the inside out.
Eight days until the championship.
Eight more days of this, and then Blaze can have his future. Can win his game, impress his scouts, become everything he was always meant to be.
Without me holding him back.
The thought should comfort me. Should feel noble, selfless, like I'm making a sacrifice that proves how much I love him.
Instead, it carves a hole in my chest that nothing can fill.
I close my eyes and see his face. The way he looked at me like I was something worth keeping. The warmth of his body pressed against mine, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
He built a life before I came back into it. Championships. Scouts. A future so bright it hurts to look at. He did all of that without me for years.
He can do it again.
I love him. And that's exactly why I have to let him go.